A couple of days ago I had a sudden impulse to fish, grabbed the gear and headed to the River Tavy. The weather forecast said that I had an hour before the rain arrived, it was wrong. As I set up my rod a gale force wind funneled down the valley and shook the ancient oak trees to their core. Concerned that my way out would be blocked, I jumped back in the Defender and beat a retreat. As I arrived home torrential rain hammered on the windows and the front path became a river. I therefore had unfinished business.
The river had only risen an inch or two, Dartmoor had soaked up most of the rain. The water was slightly coloured, like weak Earl Grey. The sun was bright but I was confident that I could winkle out a fish or two. Olives were hatching but the mayfly hatch had finished. I rolled a nymph through the pools, concentrating on the crevices in the bedrock.
A few fish rose but not consistently and I decided to stick with the nymph. The far side of the river was in shade but too shallow to hold fish. I slowly made my way down the Beat, trying to keep a low profile and avoid kicking any rocks.
I found a fish in the fast water at the head of a pool, it took the nymph gently and put up a decent scrap. I moved down to my favourite pool below the island where mature trees overhang deep water. Everything went rapidly downhill; wind knots, lost flies and tangles. The heat was getting to me so I retraced my steps and climbed the hill back to the Defender. The riverscape was beautiful and I had caught a trout. Perfect.